Linguistic Erosion is a fiction journal and part of Thunderune Publishing's free fiction lineup.Though this magazine is currently closed to submissions, you can still read some great stories in the archives by picking an author name from the drop down menu on the right or by picking a date from the menu (also on the right.)

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Melanie was the sixth woman Tony took seriously enough to introduce to Mother. Tony reminded himself that these select maternal meetings never came close to representing his active social life. He would date dozens of women in a year before a “mother meeting” came up.
Tony reminded himself that Melanie differed from the other demure women he introduced to Mother. Melanie was playful. Mother extended her serious greeting hand, and Melanie prance-stepped toward it. There had also been the feeling of a bounce in Melanie’s step earlier that afternoon, when Tony had taken her to Yankee Stadium to watch the Yankees. She wanted to twice go to the Stadium canteen for more Pepsi and hot dogs so Tony could watch her bubbling up the steps. When the fans leaving the stadium crowded them into a standstill, Melanie took an assortment of steps running in place.
“People don’t exercise when they have the chance,” she said to explain the stationary running. “I do this in elevators, and it does make them bounce.”
It was their first date, as was about 90 percent of the evenings Tony spent with young women. Melanie wasn’t as young as the rest. She had been a classmate with Tony in their middle school, so she was about the same age by a few younger months. But her original youthfulness lingered in her like a remainder out of a ratio.
Tony took her hand to help navigate her through the swirling crowd at the Yankee Stadium gates, and even there her fingers were playfully moving among his. Somehow her buoyant ways had introduced a remarkable thought, that he should ask her to marry him. With all of Tony’s dating, he had never asked that question to anyone, although he was in his middle thirties and a multi-millionaire already.
Tony fought off the question of marriage as long as he could, for about fifteen minutes, by his count. He started the subject up as he ignited his pearl BMW through the Stadium parking lot.
“My earliest memory of you,” he said, “was me standing in front of my radio, me with a phone in my ear, calling you, the radio so loud you couldn’t hear what I was saying.”
“Why did you have the music on so loud?”
“Because I worried I was so boring. I thought the music would save the day.”
He asked Melanie to marry him repeatedly as he drove her to his mother apartment in the borough of Queens.
“Okay,” she said.
“Okay what?”
“Okay, Tony, I’ll marry you.”
He didn’t trust it. The process was too easy to trust.
“Will you really marry me, Melanie? I’ll give you everything I have and I’ll never deal with all my big toys again because I just want to spend all my time dealing with you.”
“What do you mean?”
“You can take my Corvette.”
“I don’t like Corvettes. How can you feel comfortable in one?”
“I’ll give you my boat. It’s yours.”
“I wouldn’t be spending that much time in any boat.”
When they arrived at his mother’s apartment in Queens, he was asking Melanie to marry him again while she was telling him that she now decided “no” if he insisted on dumping all this “stuff” on her. This was still happening as he woke up.
Reluctantly he collected himself as he accepted that he was only having a very odd time in his sleep.
The time was almost 8:30, late enough for him to contact the serious people that he felt were worth seeking. On the day before, he had received the contact book for his 20-year high school reunion. Then in a couple of weeks, the event would be over, and his former classmates would have renewed themselves as remade 38-year-olds.
Tony had drawn instant gratification that Melanie’s name in the contact book had no accompanying spouse listed.
The classification put Melanie in the same boat as Tony as well as practically half the alumni, the people who had never married or were divorced.
“Melanie?” he said on his phone, as soon as he found her name.
It took a couple of minutes for Tony to establish to Melanie who he was.
“Melanie, I was the one who had his radio on so loud when I called you in middle school.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not the contact for the reunion.”
“I understand,” Tony said.
“This has been a crazy morning.”
“Why would it be so crazy, Melanie?”
“Because I just came in from outside, and I have no idea or memory of what I was doing suddenly out on my front porch this morning. I should be in bed waking up.”
“What?”
“Could it be that I’m having some kind of stroke? But I feel fine. I feel very, very good.”
“Can I do my best to answer your question, Melanie?”
“It’s not a stroke, you think?”
“It’s because you were in my dream, this morning.”
“Heavens.”
“That’s why I called you, Melanie. That’s where you’ve been, in my dreaming head this morning.”
“Please don’t dream about me again. If you do, wake yourself up.”
“I will.”
“Because it’s exhausting. Being in your dream has totally exhausted me this morning, that’s what. I just don’t want to talk now. If you want we’ll get a table at the reunion and we’ll talk about it then.”
“Okay, Melanie. Okay.”
“Goodbye, Tony.”
“Goodbye.”
When Tony hung up, he began to get into his clothes that day at about twice as fast as his usual speed. The rate got more intense as he pulled the car out of his driveway.
“She was in my dream,” he said to himself, to make sure of everything. “But then she left all this energy in it.”
Throughout the day Tony carried the thought that if he moved a little faster, as quickly as he could, the date of this wonderful talk at this reunion party table would move even closer.

- - - Chris Sharp’s latest book on Amazon is “How to Like a Human Being.” He lives with his wife Debbie in Menifee, California.

- -
Rain tapped on the windshield, provoking the wipers to come alive. The persistent swoosh of the blades, combined with the beads of water falling in rhythm, created a song. I allowed nature's music to enter my thoughts and let it attempt to soothe the confusion I felt inside. Why was that car in front of our house? Why do we have to stay somewhere else tonight? From the back seat, I looked up into the rearview mirror at my mother's face. She smiled but lines of worry and fear were etched along her eyes. I knew something was wrong. I just couldn’t figure out what it could possibly be or who.

Uncle Mike lived just outside of town in a rundown two-bedroom house. He lived alone, but you couldn’t tell it with all of the stuff he had sitting around. Though it was dark when we pulled into his driveway, I could clearly see all of his so called 'lawn ornaments' in the beam of our headlights. Mike was standing on his front porch waiting for our arrival. It was difficult to tell from the car, but an object in his hand caught the moonlight and gave me a shiver.

“Mom, why does Uncle Mike have a gun in his hand?” I asked.

“You know your uncle, always paranoid about something!” she said.

It was true, Mike always had a new crazy theory to talk about. This time I had a feeling that wasn’t the case. This time, I knew it had something to do with that car we saw.

We got out and quickly carried our bags inside out of the rain. In the house, the pouring rain added an ominous feel to the overstuffed living room.

“Honey, it’s been a long day, why don’t you go ahead and get some sleep. You can have the spare room upstairs, ok?” Mom said.

With that, I carried my stuff upstairs and tried to calm my nerves. Dust puffed off the bed as I heaved my bag down. This room had clearly been unoccupied for a long time. Attempting to settle in, I laid as quiet as possible trying to register any noise downstairs.

“Mabel, you ok?” Mike said to my mother.

“Just a little shaken up. I don’t understand how he found us. This is why we moved in the first place, to get away from him,” mom replied.

I leaned over the dusty mattress towards the floor, trying to be sure I didn’t miss anything.

“Well, you know I could go take care of him right now. I’m not afraid and besides, it’d be self defense, I’d make sure of it,” Mike said.

“Mike, I don’t need you getting hurt. You know how dangerous he can be. Besides, we have a restraining order, I just need to call the cops and let them handle it,” mom answered.

“Whatever you say Mae, I’m just saying I could handle him once and for all.”

I scooted back to the middle of the bed, mind racing. It was my father. We moved a few years back. Mom said because she wanted to be closer to her brother, but I knew then there were other motives, I just wasn’t sure exactly what. My father was in our house.

He was looking for us.

At some point, I guess I drifted off to sleep, because I woke to a loud banging on the door. My mother ran into my room and slammed the door shut. She drug the rickety dresser out from the corner and used it to block the door.

With a quiver in her voice my mom said, “Hadley, I need you to stay quiet and still, ok? Your father is here, but Uncle Mike is taking care of it.”

There were three loud bangs. I held my breath; a tear collected in the corner of my eye. My mother clung to me, wrapping me within her like a blanket of protection. Silent sobs racked her chest and shoulders as she rocked me back and forth.

I could feel her warm tears falling into my hair as she whispered, “It’s going to be ok…” whether it was directed towards herself, or me I don’t know.

- -
I lived above all, illuminating the darkness. I provided the gift of sight, but sight alone. I held off the shadows that pushed people down the stairs, saving them from pain and embarrassment. For a year I worked in secret. I guided each stranger that passed under me in the small stairwell.
I served from morning to dusk. I would get so hot that I’d burn you on touch, but I would labor on. Only at dusk would I be given the right to sleep, a short time to cool off before starting the cycle again.
No one asked if I wanted that job. I was simply born for the job, cursed from the beginning to work for others. No one told me what the job was. I just got screwed into the ceiling and was left there. Who would have chosen this? I was never thanked for my work. Most never knew I existed. One year a slave will be the name of my life story.
I remember my final morning with mixed emotions. The electricity that normally surged smoothly through my body was met with resistance. I flickered in pain and my master cursed at me. He reacted like I was intentionally resisting the electricity. I felt fear. I had no idea what would happen to me. That afternoon my fear was replaced with hope. Should I be unable to light the stairwell I would be set free.
That day people took notice of me. They looked as I strained myself harder and harder. I flickered and blinked, hissed and buzzed. Most of the strangers acted like my master, blaming me for my poor condition. I wasn’t deterred. I willed myself to be free, enduring the pain I knew to be temporary. Finally, at the end of the day, after the strangers had left, I felt a snap inside of me. Relief coursed throughout my body. No more pain tortured my old bones. I sighed one final sputter, as I grew dim. Dim at my choosing.
After that moment, everything grew cloudy, like I was looking through a thick fog, like I would normally see outside my window. I heard my master walk down the stairwell. After a moment, I was being spun around. The stairwell became a dizzy blur as my master released me from my prison and dropped me into a plastic bin.
And here I rest, free.
It’s already the next morning and I don’t have to shine. I don’t have to work to a boiling heat. I’m free. But, the haze has only gotten thicker, the world fainter. I hear the voices of the strangers as if from the other side of the building, though I know they’re in the stairwell because they are glad that I have been replaced.

- - - About Christopher W. Trotter:
Christopher is a student at Full Sail University. He is in the Creative Writing for Entertainment Bachelors degree program. He has written several flash fiction stories. Christopher's interests are: writing, reading, playing video games, and photography.

- -
Lucifer stepped into Yahweh's court escorted by an angel. As he reached the throne room, Lucifer eyed his associate. "I have a proposal for you, Yahweh."
Yahweh shifted on his throne. "Go on, Lucifer. What possible proposal do you have to give me?"
Lucifer gave a ghoulish smile. "Been checking out your follower, Job. Pretty cool guy. He sticks close to your commandments and never falters in prayer."
Yahweh bowed his head. "He is the best servant I have in my name. Why do you keep such watch on him?"
"You ever wonder if he only worships you because he has it so good? You have him spoiled, dear Father. You really think he would worship you if tragedy had befallen him?"
Yahweh pondered for a moment. "I suppose he would. I don't think he would turn from my grace."
"Wanna make a bet?"
"What are your terms, Lucifer?"
"I torture him. You let me. We test your vessel, see how strong his love for you really runs. If he renounces you, I get him for my army. If he praises you even in tragedy, then you can keep him and I will never make a deal such as this again." Lucifer spoke these words but the truth in him was that he wanted to see how much torture his dear king would allow on his servants. Contrary to belief, Lucifer thought Yahweh had lost his path long ago, even before the fall. This was a test for him. Lucifer wanted to see just how far Yahweh had fallen from grace.
Yahweh put a hand on his chin. "You're on, Lucifer. I win, you leave and never try this again. You win, you keep Job. You'll be one step closer to thinking you have a chance against me." Yahweh gave a condescending smile.
Lucifer smiled back. "Deal." Lucifer headed down to earth and sent a group of raiders to burn his crops and slaughter his cattle. Lucifer reappeared before Yahweh.
"You really think he will just forget this happened? You think he will continue to praise your name? He's just a fickle human, only around because things are going good for him." As he said this, he heard praises from earth, Job and his family singing in Yahweh's name. Lucifer hid a frown through a sarcastic smile.

Yahweh smiled at Lucifer. "My creation wins this round Lucifer. What say you?"
Lucifer's mouth twitched. "He only worships you for his and his family's spared life. Allow me to hurt the family and he will curse you."
Yahweh's heart broke. How could he allow this to continue? Lucifer was simply getting enjoyment from torture. This could not continue.
"Lucifer, we can't-"
"Or are you afraid of the proof that I will bring? You're scared that I am correct?"
Yahweh laughed to himself. "Fine, do what you want to Job's family, but don't hurt him." Yahweh turned to hide a tear in his eye.
Lucifer vanished.
Yahweh placed his head in his hands. "What have I done?"
Lucifer returned a while later, his garments covered in blood. "So I took care of his family. They are no longer with him. Passed 'em by on the way in, though."
Yahweh stared in shock. "And yet my vessel remains vigilant. He has torn his clothes and screamed in torment, and yet he still praises me for my works." Yahweh's chest tightened as the screams arose.
"Oh, and I left a little present just for that." Lucifer snapped his fingers. Boils formed along Job's body, head to toe. He screamed in agony as the pain engulfed him. Yahweh turned his head and closed his eyes.
"Hey, at least I didn't kill him." Yahweh's stomach churned as Lucifer tortured his beloved servant.
Job got on his knees and screamed to the heavens a song of praise for Yahweh. Yahweh smiled at Lucifer to hide the heavy pain he felt for his servant. "It seems you have lost, Lucifer. I win. Return to hell. When you have gathered your army, then you can challenge me.
Lucifer bowed before him. "As you command, my lord." Lucifer stepped out of the court and through his portal.
When Lucifer had disappeared from sight, Yahweh stood from his throne and walked out to the garden of Eden. He ran a hand along the large Tree of Knowledge, and as he did, he dropped to his knees and cried.

- -
Luigi’s is a small, romantic restaurant, featuring candlelight and good food. I live only a few blocks away in North Beach. And tonight, I’m meeting Maria.

While waiting, I order a bottle of wine, and soon, I see her step inside the door. She hurries to me. We embrace warmly, her body pressing mine. It's her way of saying that she's already feeling romantic.

Once seated, we catch up on the previous weeks, glad to be together. I tell her about my work collecting money for the family. She talks about her job at the bank. And soon, she begins to relate happy stories about her nieces and nephews, their schools and activities.

But then for no reason, I see her start fidgeting like a schoolgirl, her fingers rearranging the silverware – put the fork here, move the knife there. So, I begin to think that maybe she's not so interested, maybe she's troubled.

“Is everything okay?” I ask, concerned.

“I’m fine… just a number of confusing thoughts.”

"Like what?"

'Nothing important," she says, as her fingers return to the silverware.

Her words surprise me. She phoned only last night and said she wanted to see me – that she needed more romance. Now, I'm confused.

Nonetheless, Maria is a charming woman. Her hair is dark and her eyes bright. The rest of her is natural – soft face, modest stature, a good all round look.

She’s fourth-generation like me. And like most Italians, our families go back – a few marriages here, lots of cousins there. We didn’t really get to know each other until we discovered sex in the sixth grade.

I pour her some wine. “Drink more vino. It helps to mellow the mood."

She takes another sip and smiles, as her eyes regain their sparkle.

For the next hour, we make light chitchat while we work our way through the antipasto followed by an artichoke appetizer. Once we get to the pasta, she starts to talk about our times together – the weekends in the mountains, our days on the beach even my cousin’s wedding when we drank too much champagne and fell asleep in the bushes behind the church, our bodies curled into one.

Looking away, I watch the candlelight cast flickering shadows across our table. It’s supposed to be romantic, but for some reason, my thoughts keep turning to Maria.

I truly love her, and I don’t ever want to ever lose her. But, I also do not want to be married while my youth is still alive.

When we start on the veal, she says, "Being with you makes me so happy."

"And, I'm happy when I'm with you," I reply honestly. "I always am."

When we finish eating, I pour her more wine. She takes another sip then sighs deeply and slips off a shoe. We continue to bask while we finish the wine, our eyes directed to one another, her foot resting on my leg.

Soon, I see that look on her face – the one that tells me she’s beginning to have romantic thoughts.

“What are you thinking?” I ask quietly, hoping to move her along.

She sips the wine again, then says. "We rarely see each other. It's been weeks. Don’t you want to be with me everyday so we can share our lives together? I would like to start a family.”

“But, I’m too young to be married!" I say much too loudly. "We should wait another year... give our friendship more time to mature!”

Suddenly, her eyes flare, and before I can open my mouth, she gives my leg a shove and reaches for her purse. "We are already in our thirties. I'll be old and gray by the time you're ready for me."

Under the table, I feel her foot searching for the shoe. “It’s getting late," she says, "Will you walk me to the door, so I can catch a taxi?”

“But, tomorrow is a Sunday. We can still go to my apartment like we always do. Have good fun. Then in the morning, we can read the newspaper in bed and eat biscotti with strong coffee. Have more fun. I’ll even make your favorite cappuccino.”

Reluctantly, my eyes return to the candle. Deep inside, I know what she says is true. I've known it for years.

"We’ve waited far too long." she continues softly. "The romance has been wonderful, but it's time for us to make a serious commitment to each other or go our separate ways."

Ashamed of myself, I look into her eyes, knowing that I have wasted our years together. Then gently, I tell her of my love, my words spoken with the truth and sincerity that only comes from the heart.

“I have always loved you too,” she whispers quietly.

I extend my hand.

She smiles and accepts it. I kiss her finger tips. And then, we get up from the table and walk to the door, our eyes searching one another, wondering if our love is real or just the romance inspired by another Saturday at Luigi's.

- - - John's writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit have appeared in several professional journals as well as a number of internet sites and short story periodicals.

- -
A week ago, Sylvia called to tell me Frank Heisenberg passed away.
“I knew you were friends,” she said, “so I thought you should know.”
I didn’t tell her that I already knew, that I waved goodbye to him that very morning. Instead, I asked, “How did it happen?”
“Heart attack. The police say he didn’t even feel it,” Sylvia said. “Surprisingly, nothing happened to the car.”
“Yeah, nothing ever happens to that car,” I said, walking toward the bedroom window.
I pushed the plastic blinds away and peeked outside, where that old Cadillac waited in front of Frank’s house. That’s where I saw him this morning, standing as proud as always beside his car. He waved goodbye before getting in the Cadillac, but the engines never roared and the car remained empty inside.
“He left it to you, you know?” Sylvia said.
I really wish he hadn’t.
The Cadillac still sat there, gathering dust and orange leaves that fell from the drying trees. The Prussian blue paint no longer shimmered under the sun.
Frank had been preparing for a long awaited trip since I moved to this neighborhood. He packed and unpacked many bags, and always kept his car in top shape.
“You know, Anne,” he would say, “one day I’ll go back to Moonshine Peak. Me an’ good ol’ Daisy here.” He would pat his Cadillac as he said this.
He took too long to get ready and passed away before he attempted the five-hour trip. Even so, he refused to depart from this world. He visited almost every morning and smiled up at me when I opened my blinds, always next to good ol’ Daisy who got left behind.
I saw him again today.
My window frosted in direct sunlight and goose bumps covered my arms. He didn’t move or attempt to speak - just smiled. Then, a difference: the smallest tilt of his head toward the old Cadillac. He decided it was time to leave again.
I could only nod in reply.
I stumbled down my driveway in my sunflower dress clutching Frank’s keys. The Cadillac sparked back to life with a sweet beep the moment I unlocked it and the frigid leather made me shiver when I sat on the driver’s seat. The woody accents of Frank’s cologne still permeated the dusty car, tickling my nose with their familiarity.
Turning the ignition, I revered in the soft purr of the engine and caressed the wheel. It wasn’t long before I shifted gears, speeding down the street.
“Daisy is as gentle as ever,” I said, throwing a quick look at the rear view mirror. Frank’s blue eyes met my gaze. They wrinkled as he laughed soundlessly.
He never spoke through the whole five-hour drive, but I didn’t expect him to. We arrived at Moonshine Peak when the sun was setting and were pleased to discover it was empty. This was where Frank proposed to his late wife almost 60 years ago and now he was finally back. We admired the waves crashing violently against the risk and witnessed the sun drowning in the ocean. Then, I got to work. I drove the Cadillac to the very edge of the Peak and stepped back to send a proud glance at my old friend and neighbor.
“See? This way Daisy won’t get left behind again. She’ll follow you wherever you go,” I said.
Frank smiled in agreement before he looked up at the waking stars. He could finally move on.
“Goodbye, Frank.”
I never got to hear the sound of the Cadillac crashing against the sea. The roaring of the waves deafened me as they created Daisy’s grave. I smiled at the sky one last time before I turned away from the ocean and trekked down to the closest bus station.

- - - Amanda Cuevas Arrubarena studies in the Creative Writing For Entertainment BFA program at Full Sail University. She aims to become a Story Editor and currently accepts proofreading and editing requests in her free time. To contact Amanda Cuevas Arrubarena, please email amandacuevas@fullsail.edu

- -
Bold. Dark. Sleek. Those were the words that described a legend on my block. The lone, black Cadillac—the panther on four wheels—the king of the street—these were the legend’s many names. But those who truly knew him called him Ashwin. While other children grew up hearing stories about Goldilocks and beanstalks, I fell asleep to the spellbinding tales of Ashwin and his selfless battles to clean the streets. His roar could turn the hardest of men into a bedwetting infant.
As a child, I had never met the owner of Ashwin but had heard he was some kind of freak—a bloodthirsty vampire. The locals called him a mutant vigilante—claiming that he was the product of some failed experiment that left him fused to the car. His heart was said to have powered the death machine through his blackened veins, feeding it his ravaged soul to burn as fuel.
As bad as things were, even the cops steered clear of my block. But if you were a regular kid, like I was, you had little worries. Ashwin stood for good—justice—sanctuary. And more importantly, he was always watching. If not for him, the block would have been a hopeless stretch of despair—a soiled landscape of senseless violence. I would have been lucky to see graduation.
I heard a story once, from a boy named Donavan White, about his encounter with Ashwin. He was attacked one night, while walking home from a high school football game. The attackers had him at gunpoint and were demanding his wallet, when the roar of a massive engine caught them off-guard. As the grumble of the engine rolled in, like a violent storm, and headlights pierced the darkness, the attackers fled down an alley with Donavan’s wallet. When all was said and done, the dark silhouette of Ashwin’s owner stood towering over him, headlights blaring at his back—extending his hand to return the wallet, without a single word. He said that, once he wrapped his hand around the wallet, the man and Ashwin disappeared into the night.
I am much older now than I was then. At the age of forty-three, I have five published novels, a loving family, and a house in a suburban neighborhood. I attribute all of my success to Ashwin. My first successful book was the story of how he saved my life. I had tracked down his last known whereabouts and tried to get an interview with the man behind the windshield, finding that he had died a few months after I had left the block. It was as if his job was done, once I had made it out. I met his daughter, who described him as a proud and patriotic man. After being diagnosed with inoperable lung cancer, he spent his dying days cleaning the streets of filth. His daughter claimed to have only known of his actions through a letter left for her, after his death.
I remember staring blankly at his photos, studying the face of the man who drove the legend—realizing he was not a freak or a mutant, but a man. She took me to the curb, where Ashwin sat—still glossed and gleaming, beads of raindrops speckled across the hood. Ashwin, though stunning as ever, looked empty and alone. Without the fuel of his owner’s fury, he was nothing more than a lifeless heap of shining metal—a legend in the minds of the children he had saved.

- -
Turkey.
There’s a rumor going around that turkey puts you to sleep. Well, maybe not a rumor. More like a medically proven side effect of the turkey. It has something in it, a chemical I can’t remember the name of, that knocks you out. One minute, stuffing your face with sweet potato pie, the next a narcoleptic heap. Your face literally shoved into your plate, inhaling and exhaling mashed potato particles.
I have almost fallen victim to the Reaper’s turkey slumber when my grandmother says, “I can’t tell whether that Lady Gaga person is a man or a woman.”
My father shakes his head in irritation, amusement absent from his expression. He shifts between youthful 40’s and midlife crisis too often to guess which one will show next.
“Mom, I’m pretty sure she’s a woman,” he says. More like, he booms. A younger generation shouting over the previous one’s confusion and loss in modern times.
My grandmother pauses. “I guess she’d have to have a penis to be a man.”
I choke on the canned cranberry sauce shooting down my windpipe.
Dad gives me a dirty look, as if to say, don’t encourage her.
But I can’t help laughing at a 76-year-old woman questioning the anatomy of a pop star.

Turkey.
I’d rather be asleep now. I could be dreaming of all the weird shit my grandmother’s said on the holidays. I could reminisce about the time she asked the waiter at Denny’s what busting a cap in someone’s you-know-where meant. I’d giggle into my dessert plate, spit pie on the table. And that would make her laugh too.
I find myself lost in these memories at the same table. Same ancient, scratched surface, same ugly carvings up the wooden legs.
I’m laughing, but my eyes aren’t crinkling up. My brother’s not pointing at me, making inappropriate Asian jokes about how small they are when I cackle and can’t stop.
My father’s laughing. He’s a Cheshire cat.
My mother’s laughing. Something about green beans being too flimsy.
I glance at the empty chair across from me. I picture her there, talking about the gay men that hit on her before she started dating my grandpa. And for a solitary second, the corners of my eyes crinkle.

- - - Adi Bracken aspires to become a professor of the written word. She has been published in Eye Contact and the Setonian.

- -
The sound of the unlocking door was music to their ears. As the key slid out, John swung the door into the wall. When it hit the stopper his face grimaced. He escorted a woman with straight blonde hair into the room and shut the door with care. The room was pristine, and there was a chill in the air. The air conditioner was emitting a low hum that greeted them as soon as the door opened. The shades were drawn up over the window, letting the harsh beams of sunlight litter the room. The woman had already seated herself on the far bed with her legs crossed by the time he had turned to face her.
“I love it here,” she said.
A smile formed on John’s face, but his teeth remained hidden. He began to loosen his tie as the woman pulled a notepad out of her handbag and searched for a pen. With his tie hung on the doorknob, John pulled a pen out of his shirt pocket and handed it to her. She smiled a “thank you.” The smile had fled from John’s face, but he forced one in that in moment. Before he turned away, the corners of his mouth dipped down a little too far for the woman’s liking.
“Okay, what’s wrong, John?”
John sat on the second bed with his back to her and slipped off a shoe. “I’ve just spent so much of my life in rooms just like this,” he said. He pressed his chin to his chest as he closed his eyes for a moment. He had slid off the other shoe before he opened them again.
The woman lost her smile as well as she nodded. “I understand,” she said, “but there’s no shame in that.”
“No, not shame.” John was spinning the wedding ring around his finger, still hanging his head.
“Are you trying to unscrew it or screw it on tighter?”
The woman got up to lower the blinds over the window. A shadow covered the room from head to toe.
“I don’t even know anymore,” John said as he rubbed his forehead with his hand. He pushed his hair back and turned his body to rest his head on the pillow. The ceiling was pearly white with a small crack tracing a lightning bolt away from the wall.
The woman set her notebook and pen on the bed next to John. “Take your time. I’ll be right back, then I’m not going anywhere any time soon.” She walked into the bathroom and shut the door most of the way.
John could hear the faucet running for the entirety of her absence. He put both hands over his eyes and let out a few heavy breaths as he sat up on the side of his bed, facing the other one. His throat growled as he cleared any obstruction. “Do you think I’m wasting my time here?”
The woman entered from the other room with her hair in an elaborate braid. “No, I don’t,” the woman said as she sat next to him. “I think you’re doing the right thing. Your wife will understand. Besides, it’s almost over.”
“You’re right, I guess I just need to get the story of this bullshit out before it’s too late. ”
“You’re not dead yet, John. It’s not about the disease, though. Let’s tell your story,” the woman said as he put her hand on his shoulder. “Your family deserves to hear it all.”
“There’s so much to say, where did we leave off?”
“We’re close, about two years ago.”
John told the remainder of his story to the woman as she scribbled away in her notebook. A few hours later, he uttered the final words, which included the present day. Once he finished, he pulled out a napkin cluttered with his handwriting in multiple different colors. “Next week we will cover the epilogue.”
“You got it John,” the woman said as she gave him a hug. “Meet you here next week.”
“My home away from home,” John said as he departed.
When he arrived home, John told his wife all about the memoirs he had been working on and broke the news of the terminal state of his disease. He stayed awake with her all night as she cried on his shoulder. He did not arrive at the next weekly meeting.

- - - Jordan Helsley began writing at age 22, when he briefly wrote freelance articles for the video game website unigamesity.com. Shortly after, he enrolling in school to refine his writing skills and obtain a writing degree.